Scrawled into the pavement, again and again
Written on the red stalls in smokey tin
On the smokey tin, it melts again and again
On the booths of the round table, again and again
Drug onto the street and onto the soaking steps, again and again
Endless debris sifting through static lungs, lingering into every pore
Laced with a bitter face near the dawning of the high and madness of the undertow
We audience who saved our roses
We audience who scoffed at the tears
Ugliness stretching toward the chandelier
Pale with pain
I imagined the overcome and fell to my knees before the endless truth of instability and futility.
Now I know.